


Dear Diary

by editorbit



Series: Jerome & Jeremiah Character Studies(?) [20]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, One Shot, Post-Laughing Toxin Jeremiah Valeska, i cried so there’s that, jeromes diary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:08:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21977869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/editorbit/pseuds/editorbit
Summary: Jeremiah has read it all. Page after page he devours before finally letting his poor eyes rest. Over and over he reads them.
Relationships: Jeremiah Valeska & Jerome Valeska, Jeremiah Valeska/Jerome Valeska
Series: Jerome & Jeremiah Character Studies(?) [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1514969
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39





	Dear Diary

Jeremiah flips through every page. Every page filled with doodles and words written over and over again until they fill the entire page. To the naked, inexperienced eye, they hold no meaning, never mind a purpose. Were anyone else than him to read it, say Jim Gordon perhaps, it would look like the diary of a lunatic who killed his mother merely writing whatever comes to mind in his fit of rage. All in all, nonsense. 

Jeremiah though, sees the meaning all the drawings and words hold. He can see the rage in every single one of the drawings he spots as he flips through the pages. He can see the anger, how harshly the words had been written, pencil pressed against the paper with force. He can see the pain behind every single letter, every stroke of the pencil, every single millimetre of grey on white. Jerome might be a lunatic, who also killed their mother, yet this isn’t the work of that Jerome. At least not just that Jerome. Jeremiah can spot the old Jerome in there between the lines, the letters as well as the pages glued together to the point Jeremiah couldn’t split them without ripping them. He’s in there too. The Jerome very much like himself. The nice Jerome. The Jerome he loved.

Jerome who spent almost every waking second with him and even when asleep, Jerome was never too far away. They would play together day after day until the sun set or they couldn’t come up with anything else to do. If so, they’d lie down in the grass and stare up at the sky, simply enjoying each other’s presence. Jerome who made them hot chocolate - with marshmallows he took from the circus - whenever their mother was out and about, gone until far into the night presumably. Jeremiah would read to him from the newspaper. Jerome who would take him out into the city whenever they got the opportunity. He’d steal some money from their mother’s purse and he’d buy them both soda or ice cream which they would later sit and enjoy on a bench while they people-watched. They would guess people’s lives, what they were doing, where they were going and where they came from. 

Jeremiah has read it all. Page after page he devours before finally letting his poor eyes rest. Over and over he reads them. It’s one of the only things left of him, and one of the most personal ones. Every page, except a couple. They’re stuck together and Jeremiah knows if he tries to separate them they’ll rip. They’ll be ruined and Jeremiah knows he will hate himself for doing it. He leaves them be, for now. He shuts the book and lets it lie there on his desk. He shoves his hands into his pockets, tightens them into fists and his eyes bore into the stickers covering the diary. 

There’s something on them. Jeremiah knows it. There’s a little inkling of desire and want to pry them apart and see what they hold. He can only imagine what fills the pages. Words, new ones. New words Jeremiah once again stays up at night to figure out and decipher. Drawings of their mother, of their past or perhaps of the future. Ideas or desires Jerome would never utter out loud. No matter what it is, Jerome meant for them to stick together like that. Every page, every line, every sticker. They all hold purpose. Something is on those hidden pages and Jerome didn’t want anyone to see them. Jeremiah needs to see them. 

His hands slip out of his pockets and he lets himself give in. Giving in to his desires, he lets his fingers run over the cover. They trace the stickers spelling out Jerome’s name. Jeremiah can faintly remember teaching Jerome those very letters. Somewhere in his drawers he still has pieces of paper filled with them. All in Jerome’s handwriting. He has definitely improved a lot since then, judging by his handwriting in this very diary before him. Still, his handwriting is nothing like his own. Jerome’s has a bit of an edge to it. Carelessness, nonchalance, yet with a hint of emotion. Jeremiah’s is neat and tidy, perhaps a bit rough. Perhaps he presses the pen against the paper a bit too harsh.  
Tracing the big sticker shaped like an ice cream, Jeremiah can almost taste the familiar taste of blueberry flavoured ice cream. Blueberry with sprinkles on top. Sweet, yet a little sour. The warmth of a small cafe spreads through him. He can almost hear Jerome’s voice speaking through mouthfuls of melting ice cream. Nice words. Much unlike the ones written in this book. 

Finally, Jeremiah flips it open. Page after page he flips through. Drawings of blood, death and injury. Words filled with rage and grudges. Then, two pages glued together, just waiting to be gently pried apart and looked at sit before him.  
His hands are gentle as is his every move. Every movement is calculated and well thought through. He knows one wrong move will result in a rip and his heart beats uncomfortably hard in his chest. The sound echoes in his ears and he does his best to ignore it. Concentration is key. By the time he’s got a corner free, the world has seemingly disappeared around him. It’s only him and this book. Only him and Jerome.

The pages finally fall apart. There they are, right before his eyes. He takes it all in. Jeremiah takes great satisfaction in knowing only he has seen them and what they contain ever since Jerome glued them together. With gentle hands he picks the book up and takes it with him to sit in a chair. He sits and he takes it all in, slowly and thoroughly. He savours the feelings running through him. 

The first thing that greets him on the first page is a drawing. Unlike the others scattered around in the diary, this one has an almost childlike feel to it. It’s innocent. No blood drips from the person’s head. Their face isn’t falling off. No bad words surround them. It’s just a boy. A young boy clad in a sweater and with glasses perched on his nose. Jeremiah traces the thin lines with his finger. They have been made with gentle hands and precision. Jeremiah can barely imagine Jerome - crazy, psychotic Jerome who had brutally murdered their mother, their uncle, as well as Mr. Cicero - drawing this, drawing him. Because it is Jeremiah. His name is written above the drawing in neat, cursive handwriting reminiscent of Jeremiah’s. It’s young Jeremiah. Young Jeremiah in his favourite knitted - although store bought - sweater, carrying his drawing supplies and bearing a smile on his face.  
Though, leaning in closer, Jeremiah spots what seems to be a shadow peaking out from behind him. Compared to Jeremiah, it’s dark and almost devilish looking. He doesn’t dwell on what it can mean. 

On the exact same spot on the other page, is another boy. A boy much like the first one. Although this one wears no glasses on his face, but rather bruises. One around his eye and one on his cheek. One is a faint yellow colour while the other is blue. Yellow and old. Blue and fresh. This one wears a worn out shirt and no smile. Jerome’s name is written above this one in Jerome’s handwriting. Jeremiah traces the drawing with odd feelings creeping through him, but he can’t help but smile ever so softly. He doesn’t know if he’s stretching it a bit far, but perhaps not. They really were stuck together like these two pages were, weren’t they. Like they once were, but now are not. The smile falters ever so slightly and he moves on. 

Small doodles are scattered around the two pages. Ice creams like the one on the cover with sprinkles. The taste of blueberry still lingers on his tongue. Stars much like the ones they’d sometimes watch while lying outside in the grass, trailer once again unavailable. Cups filled with hot chocolate he assumes, like the ones Jerome made, or maybe coffee. Jeremiah had taken a liking to coffee very early on. Jerome, perhaps not so much, but he had never refused a cup.  
Jeremiah wonders if Jerome missed his coffee as much as he misses Jerome’s hot chocolate. Swallowing thickly he moves on. 

He’s stalling. He knows it, but doesn’t admit it. Not even letting himself look at the words written on the pages, he continues taking in the doodles. Pencil and eraser. Lines surrounding the words he still won’t acknowledge as well as every drawing. Like lines of a maze. He finds himself trying to find the middle of it, finger running over the paper. Dead end after dead end, then eventually finding what he assumes is the middle. Death, it says. He ignores all the other words. Not yet, he thinks to himself. 

Death at the end of a maze full of dead ends. How poetic. Jeremiah wonders if it refers to Jerome specifically, Jeremiah or just anyone or anything in general. Either way, Jeremiah realises that now only the words are left. Words Jeremiah has almost dreaded reading, very few words compared to the words on other pages, other pages filled to the brim with words. He doesn’t know what they will say, nor what they will mean.

—————

Dear Xander Wilde,

Jerome here, if you recognise that name after all these years. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. Gotta keep room for all those friends, business colleagues and new family members in there I’m guessing. How funny. While you’re gaining family members, I’m losing them. One by one they drop like flies. Which one’s next, you think? 

Anyway, you’re not reading this. At least I hope you aren’t. Did you go through big brother’s things again? Mommy won’t like that. Well, on the other hand, she’s kind of long gone by now and let’s be real, she wouldn’t have cared. Because screw Jerome, am I right? Jeremiah is what matters. Sweet little Jeremiah with his smart little brain, clever words and innocent eyes. 

I’m not very good with words. Not like you. They say words are the most powerful weapons. They can build or destroy. And you sure as hell have destroyed a lot with those words of yours. All those words you used on mommy dearest. Like bullets to my head, they were. To my head, my face, my stomach, my legs, depending on what they felt like doing this time. You wrote novels with those words. And you finished with a bang. Bestsellers, I’m sure. 

You know, death is overrated. I should know, shouldn’t I? I am after all dead right now probably. Still, I died many years ago. I have been dead for a long time. Spooky, am I right? Anyhow, very uneventful. Death. One second you’re alive, the next you’re not. Nothing more to it really. People say it’s relieving. Finally, they say, finally I don’t have to live this life anymore. Which is funny because those people were already dead, weren’t they? Are you dead, Jeremiah?

I know you probably have a busy life now so I won’t be keeping you. I’ll let you get back to your drawing and coffee drinking. Final words from your deceased big brother. Don’t be a dead man. Death is dull, boring and nonrefundable. 

Yours truly, Jerome

—————

Jeremiah shuts the diary. Letting it lie in his lap he stares down at it. He bites down on his bottom lip and squeezes his eyes shut, keeping everything in. Still, like dominos they fall, slipping out. Tear after tear rolls down his pale cheeks, hitting the stickers, one after the other. His nose is running and he struggles to even sniffle as sobs constantly interrupt him. Sob after sob.

Jeremiah killed him.


End file.
